


Reverence

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Series: Insightsive [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Loveless
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fighters and Sacrifices Are Known, Fighter/Sacrifice, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 10:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11965911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Will doesn't need a Sacrifice to do his job.  Jack thinks otherwise.  Hannibal is just having the time of his life, which leads to several other people having a very bad day.





	Reverence

**Author's Note:**

> In case you know nothing about Loveless or I didn't make it clear enough last time, everyone in Loveless canon is born with animal ears and tails. (I always assumed they were all cat features, though some folks have suggested they might be a mix of dogs and cats. I'm still going with all cats.) You lose your ears and tail when you lose your virginity. No I am not making this up. This is just one of the many reasons why Loveless crack is best crack. Don't look for any sort of rational explanation as to how this works, though, or what even canonically constitutes "virginity"--trying to make sense of it will just give you a headache.

Jack's seen all types come through these halls, from cocky blue flamers to the quiet, studious types who either callus over quick or burn out when their noble intentions can't save the world. Jack knows how to handle those, knocking the former down enough pegs to work inside a team and toughening the latter up so they don't stop working entirely. His methods might seem harsh to some, but he always gets results.

Will Graham is something different. He reminds Jack inescapably of a beaten dog: jittery around people, apt to bite when anyone gets too close, growly and snappish because he can't tell where the next kick's coming from, only that it's sure to come. It's a mystery to Jack how Graham ever got hired, much less put in front of a classroom, only it turns out Graham's reputation for brilliance is entirely deserved.

He's not expecting too much out of the handler he brings in to calm this nervous bloodhound down. Jack's pretty sure Dr. Lecter would cut an imposing figure even if he weren't a Sacrifice, but for a Fighter like Jack or Will, everything's magnified. It doesn't matter in the slightest that Lecter's not _Jack's_ Sacrifice. His instincts know he could be facing this man in battle one day, facing a Fighter under orders, and the ruthless control in Lecter's quiet bearing lodges a flutter of unease in the pit of Jack's stomach. His Bella's mind is sharp as a whip, quick to spot an advantage for him to take, but Lecter's like a sheet of glass, every weakness smoothed away.

He figures Lecter will either put Graham in his place and then into harness, or else he'll send him screaming in the opposite direction with that pedigreed air of Sacrificial entitlement. He's definitely not expecting to witness a Hallmark moment right there in his office. Maybe he means Harlequin. Will's unabashed mooning falls somewhere between charming and hilarious, right up until he drags Lecter off for a private powwow without a word of explanation.

Jack is still gripping tightly to the edge of his desk, weighing the benefits of declaring on the entire fucking floor or waiting until they get back, when Graham bursts back in with the first genuine, unabashed smile Jack's ever seen on him.

He's still holding Lecter's hand.

"Sorry, Jack," Will says, not sounding sorry in the slightest as he waltzes in and takes a seat, pulling Lecter along after him. Jack's honestly a little amazed, as Lecter's shown no inclination whatsoever for humoring the whims of random Fighters. "We, uh...weren't expecting to meet like this, but...I'd like you to meet my Sacrifice. Surprise!" Will adds with a dazed little half-grin, like he can hardly believe it himself.

Jack turns instantly to Lecter, waiting to hear a sensible explanation for Will's babbling, but Lecter sinks into the other chair with a faint smile and no trace of embarrassment. He makes no move to free himself from Will's desperate grip.

"Indeed. Will and I owe you a debt of gratitude. You must come to dinner sometime--I insist."

Jack stares for a moment, glancing swiftly to Will and back again. "Are you two serious?" he asks after a beat, waiting for one or the other to crack and admit they're having him on. His money's on Graham.

Will chuckles a little, his free hand scrubbing sheepishly through his hair. "Yeah, it took us by surprise too, but it's the real deal."

"And you two never ran your Name through the database...?" He's not sure why he's being so skeptical; it's just a little too coincidental for his tastes. That and they're practically complete opposites: how did a wealthy psychiatrist who clearly has his life figured out end up with a human disaster of a Fighter like Will Graham?

He kind of expects Lecter's moue of distaste at the mention of the database, but Will's matching grimace is a bit of a surprise. Jack snorts, suddenly amused. "Oh, I see. A pair of traditionalists, hmm?"

"You must admit," Lecter replies while Will squirms in his seat, "there's something to be said for testing the strength of a bond. One able to call two people together from halfway across the world--that would be a bond to be reckoned with, yes?"

"You romantic, you," Jack says, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. It's...nice, actually, when he lets himself think about it. Maybe Graham will mellow Lecter out a bit--and maybe Lecter will have a greater calming effect on their wunderkind than Jack had hoped. "So I guess you two won't have any trouble working together."

"I foresee no difficulties," Lecter says, turning to Will expectantly, brows arched.

"Yeah, no. Of course not," Will says quickly, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a wry little grin. "Just, uh--I'm going to have to take a raincheck on that for now. Classes," he explains as he rises jerkily back to his feet and gets stuck when he realizes he's still holding on to his Sacrifice. "I've got a lecture to give," he adds, practically on autopilot as he fumbles with letting go, almost like their fingers have somehow gotten knotted together. "About psychoanalyzing."

"Of course," Lecter agrees, unruffled. "Later, then."

"Sure. Tonight?" Will asks, grabbing his bag and coat as he practically backs his way to Jack's office door.

"Ah. I'm afraid I have a conference to attend that requires a bit of travel. I'll be leaving this evening, but I should be back this weekend--Sunday, perhaps, if you're free?"

"Definitely. I'll, ah--I'll see you then," Will says, still not meeting anyone's eyes, but the energy running through him looks softer somehow. Less prickly, more anticipatory. He's out the door a heartbeat later, and the office seems suddenly too still with his absence.

"Well, well," Jack drawls with a grin. "That was definitely not how I saw this meeting going."

"I believe that makes two of us," Hannibal agrees, some of the quiet fondness he'd shown around Will still lingering in his smile. He certainly seems to be regarding Jack in a friendlier manner, though Alana Bloom's name had already gone a long way towards breaking the ice in their first meeting.

"But you see why I asked you here, right?" Jack presses, needing to make sure Lector doesn't let the discovery of their shared Name blind him to his Fighter's very real problems. "What Will does--honestly, it's probably not good for anybody, but he seems to be on shakier ground than most. I don't want to see him get lost in what goes on in his head. I need his vision, but I also need the man behind it."

Another Sacrifice might have bristled at being told how to manage his Fighter, but Lecter merely smiles. The tip of his tail curls and slowly uncurls by his knee, utterly relaxed. It's honestly a little weird seeing it on him, the two curiously-pricked ears perched atop his head. If he hadn't been someone's Sacrifice, Lecter could have lost them anytime he pleased.

Jack wishes sometimes he'd waited for Bella himself, but he's never been one to dwell on old regrets.

"Of course I see. The problem is that Will sees more. What he has is pure empathy. He can assume your point of view," Lecter tries to explain, sitting forward in his chair. "Or mine, and maybe some other points of view that scare him."

Jack frowns. Magic that lingers on after a battle sphere drops is rare, but finding people with the odd ability...it happens. He's not sure which type of empathy Lecter is referring to, but it makes a lot of sense either way.

"It's an uncomfortable gift, Jack," Hannibal says, subdued. "Perception's a tool that's pointed on both ends. Even the strongest soul could use a shield against the worst of it."

"Well. Luckily for him, that's what a Sacrifice does."

"Indeed," Lecter says, mouth curving up in that typical smug smile Jack has never been able to wrap his head around. Of all the Sacrifices he's met, very few have been actual masochists, but the pride they take in drawing the hits meant for their Fighter is practically universal.

Lecter doesn't belabor the point, glancing thoughtfully at the pinboard on the wall with its map of victims. "This cannibal you have him getting to know," he muses as his eyes flick from girl to girl, staring unflinchingly at too much wasted potential. "I think I can help good Will see his face."

"If you can, I'd be much obliged," Jack says, wondering if he can talk Lecter into skipping his conference. Now that Will's got a Sacrifice, he wants these two out in the field together if he can manage it, as soon as possible, even if he has to lock them in a room together to jumpstart the process.

He'll just have to keep his door closed for a week or two afterwards if it comes to that, because the office gossip's going to be unbearable if Graham comes in minus his ears.

***

It's hard to concentrate through his last two classes, hard not to resent the way expectations change. When you meet your other half as kids, everyone's all too happy to give you time to get to know one another, but the older you get, the more life intrudes. Meeting at their age, they won't get any special consideration, and Will's all too aware that his will be the next murder investigated if he tries to ask for time off now.

Which is assuming a lot, as it happens. He googles his Sacrifice between classes, cursing himself for not getting Hannibal's number, but with a name so unusual, how hard can he be to find?

The answer is: not hard at all, between the academic papers, the highly successful psychiatric practice, and the occasional mention of his name in the society pages. He's got patients to see, appointments to keep, and the idea that he'd drop everything just to strengthen a bond that lay dormant for more than thirty years....

Will clenches his jaw as he stuffs his lecture notes into his bag, ignoring the busy clamor of his last class of the day heading for the doors. He guesses he can finally let himself off the hook for not running all the way to Lithuania when he was a kid, and maybe the sheer distance involved explains why his own attempts to tug on the bond were never answered. What reached him that one time...that wasn't a polite little knock to see if anyone was home or even a panicked shout from a few counties over. That was....

He doesn't know what that was, and he's almost afraid to find out. Hannibal may have lived through it--and he hates, fiercely, that he has to be glad that Hannibal's a strict traditionalist, that at least he doesn't have to worry whether rape was a part of it--but Will's seen too much of the horrors people are capable of, and the idea of Hannibal suffering through any of that is--

Right. Not thinking about it. Not when he still has to drive home.

He leaves the radio off on the way out to Wolf Trap, fighting to keep his mind on the road and not his Sacrifice. He's well aware he made an absolute fool of himself in Jack's office, but just this once, he's willing to cut himself some slack. A heightened need for physical contact is one of the classic hallmarks of a newly-discovered pair, meant to strengthen the bond, and after _thirty-four years_ of an empty space at his side, he can damned well be forgiven for wanting five minutes of reassurance that things have changed.

He hopes they have, anyway. He's not entirely certain Hannibal believes the same.

The dogs are already barking inside the house by the time he steps out of the car, and they swarm him the minute he unlocks the door. "Hey, hey, settle down," he says as he wades through the pack, careful not to step on any paws. "Missed me, huh?"

Too well-trained to jump up on him while he's standing, they leave slobbery kisses on his hands as they follow him into the kitchen, only half as interested in the food he pours out as they are in saying hello. They're a good distraction, simple and uncomplicated in their affections. He wonders idly if Hannibal likes dogs and shuts that thought down quickly.

That's the thing, though. That's why everybody waits, even long past the point where the rosy glow of romanticism wears off. Fighters and Sacrifices don't always add 'lovers' to their connection, but it happens often enough that the odds are overwhelmingly in its favor. He hadn't thought about it too much when he was a kid, just assimilated it as an accepted fact like the dampness of the ocean, but as he got older....

He's had girlfriends. He'd like to say he's come close to losing his ears a few times over the years, but in all honesty he's never been able to maintain a deep enough connection long enough to get that far. He's tried casual hookups, but the sheer effort of being present, interesting and engaging for a complete stranger leaves him too drained to want to follow through.

And now there's Hannibal, and he has no idea how he even feels about that, whether he's attracted or riding the high of having finally met or simply relieved. It's way too early to be thinking about any kind of permanent plans, and anyway...having good odds isn't a guarantee. He has no idea what Hannibal thinks about all of this either.

He makes himself dinner, though he's not really hungry: salad out of a bag and a trout fillet he pulls from the freezer. The dogs watch him hopefully as he eats, but he's not about to risk anybody choking on the bones; they're happy enough to run outside for a while when he shoos them out.

He's just finishing the dishes, already looking for the next mindless task to occupy his time, when the phone rings. He nearly doesn't pick up when he sees an unknown number, but the display says it's from Baltimore.

"Hello?" he says, bracing himself for the embarrassment sure to come when he's invariably disappointed.

" _Will_ ," Hannibal says with a quiet warmth that uncurls some of the tension gathering in Will's shoulders. " _I hope I haven't overstepped, but I asked Jack for your phone number so we could work out a place and time to meet. If you're still interested, of course_."

"Oh--yeah, I'm glad you thought of it," Will says, wishing he'd done the same. "I mean, I looked you up--found your office number--but I figured calling during business hours would be kind of unprofessional."

" _Your restraint is commendable. Better than mine, in fact; I nearly gave in to temptation twice, but my patients would never have let me hear the end of it_." Will huffs a quiet laugh, encouraged that Hannibal feels comfortable enough to joke with him, that the gentle teasing isn't setting his teeth on edge. " _Does this mean you're still open to getting together_?"

"Of course," Will says, trying not to sound as startled as he feels as he settles his shoulder against the kitchen doorframe. Does Hannibal still think that's even a question? "Sunday, right? I've got no plans, so barring emergencies, I'm all yours."

" _Excellent. Could I offer you lunch? I'm sure we could find a restaurant we both agree on...or, if you're feeling more adventurous, perhaps you'd allow me to cook for you_."

"You cook?" Jesus, he shouldn't be perking up at that; he literally just ate.

Hannibal's chuckle is knowing, indulgent. " _You might say it's one of my passions. Shall I give you my address_?"

"Please."

There's no real reason to stay on the phone after the details are exchanged; they'll have plenty of time to talk that weekend, face to face. He still feels a sting of disappointment when Hannibal clears his throat, saying, " _I'm sorry, Will, but I need to leave now if I'm to make my flight_."

"Sure, no problem." It's really not. He's a grown adult, not a teenager. "I'll see you this weekend, then. Uh, enjoy your conference?" He probably should have asked what it was for, whether it's a subject Hannibal's actually interested in or something he's enduring in the name of continuing education credits for his license.

" _Of course. Have a pleasant evening_."

"You too." He knows his grin probably came through loud and clear, but he hopes Hannibal won't mind. It's just that he's never met anyone so _proper_ in all his life, and he grew up in the heart of church socials and the absolute, iron rule of grandmothers.

Though he barely knows more now than he did before, the entire day still feels like a success. He's found his Sacrifice, has a lunch date of sorts to look forward to and maybe an ally against the traps his mind likes to set for him. Maybe he can even return the favor.

He realizes as he whistles for his small pack that he forgot to work his dogs into the conversation, but it'll keep. One step at a time.

***

It's a risk, flying into Duluth under his own name, but a calculated one. Hannibal's had no connection to the killings in Minnesota until now, and it should be easy enough to establish an alibi. That there was a psychiatric conference in the same state as his intended destination is merely a bonus. He'll be taking the train back regardless--airlines tend not to appreciate surprise organs amongst the cargo--but he appreciates not having to detour far out of his way. The tightly-packed state lines of the East Coast have spoiled him.

"Hannibal?" he's hailed as he strolls into his hotel, ready to do battle with the forces of bureaucracy despite an impromptu three-hour flight. "It is you! My God, it's been ages!"

He turns with a polite smile made genuine when he catches sight of the speaker. "Dr. Bright. It's good to see you again."

"Doctor," she scoffs with an indulgent smile. "I thought I told you to call me Cora."

Dr. Cora Bright is a diminutive woman whose bobbed cloud of now-white hair barely crests his tie-pin. She must be nearing seventy, but she seems as active as ever, her memory as keen. As one of the conference's organizers, she's also one of three people he'd hoped to run into in the morning.

"My apologies," he murmurs, inclining his head. "I always forget my manners when confronted with a beautiful woman."

She laughs at him outright, falling into step beside him so he can continue on to the front desk. "Charmer," she accuses, shaking her head. "And how did you slip under the radar, anyway? If I'd known you were coming, I'd have roped you into speaking."

"As it happens, I'm afraid I may have made a wasted trip," he mourns with a faint grimace. "It's been a busy few months, and by the time I realized I hadn't received a confirmation for my attendance, I was on my way to the airport. I suppose at worst I could play tourist for a few days--"

"Nonsense," Dr. Bright says briskly, tugging her phone from her pocket to send off a quick text. "I'll have my assistant get you sorted out first thing in the morning. And perhaps you'd care to join a few of us for lunch? I remember quite fondly your knack for talking circles around uppity Fighters, and an old woman's got to get her entertainment somewhere."

"It would be my pleasure," Hannibal promises, cocking out his elbow for her to link her frail arm in his.

Dr. Bright's smile is a glittering and toothy thing, sly as a wolf. He's always liked that about her.

That night he lies awake in his room, staring up at the dark ceiling in thought with his hands laced across his stomach. Is he moving too quickly, jumping to offer assistance where it isn't needed? It's possible he's letting impatience get the better of him, but he truly does think he's gauged the situation accurately. He knows too well the frustration of being thwarted in a kill when one has committed fully to the deed, the bone-deep dissatisfaction of a job left undone. Their killer will strike again, soon, but stress will make him sloppy, or he might even cut the game short and finally take that one special girl he sees behind all the others. If the game draws to a close too soon, he may never be caught at all, and Hannibal can't have that.

Will deserves better than to suffer the let-down of an inconclusive hunt. And, if Hannibal's honest, he's...curious. If he insinuates himself into this investigation, if they track down their quarry together...what would it be like to hunt beside his Fighter at last?

 _His Fighter_. It doesn't seem possible, and yet Will rattled off their Names with ingenuous conviction, comfortable with every one. He doesn't seem like the sort of man Incise would fit, though Insight would have suited him perfectly. Incisive, though....

 _Like me in a crowd_ , Will had said with a touch of rue but no anger, the sheer rightness of it acknowledged and claimed. If he resents Hannibal for changing them, he doesn't let it show.

Hannibal's slow, steady breaths still at the thought that brushes at the edge of conscious awareness, more impression than idea. He'd thought his Fighter had recoiled from the changes he must dimly have sensed in Hannibal's heart and mind, but instead the opposite seems true. Rather than pulling away, Will appears to have adapted instead, in all but those first few years when their Name had blurred. Now he wonders: had that been the unequivocal rejection he's always assumed, or had that been Will's attempt, young and untrained, to hold tight to the bond and keep what was his?

He smiles up into the dark, an inexplicable warmth blossoming behind his ribs. Even hope is dangerous--his Fighter doesn't hunt killers for the FBI out of boredom--but the thought persists. Will may have adapted to the killer he's bound to, but is he capable of becoming something...more? And will he allow Hannibal to coax that possibility into the light?

Call it impatience; call it foolishness: Hannibal needs to know. If Will truly is his intended Fighter, he doubts he'll be disappointed either way.

***

Cassie Boyle is not having a good night. They've been cutting her hours at the restaurant ever since her manager hired one of his idiot friends from high school, but is Matt the one who has to work a double shift when someone calls in at the last minute? No. Matt gets to keep his Saturday night, and she gets to spend another six hours on her feet--eight, if Maria hadn't agreed to come in early.

Her own plans are screwed by the time she finally gets to clock out, and it's just the icing on the fucking cake when she dashes outside to see the bus she needs pull away from the stop before she can flag it down. It's cold, it's late, and she's dead on her feet, and she is in no fucking mood to be nice about it when she storms into the nearest Starbucks and then nearly collides with a guy who doesn't get out of the way fast enough when she stalks back out again, almost dumping coffee all over herself as they collide.

"Are you all right?" he asks, reaching out to steady her with a hand under her elbow.

Jerking her eyes up to glare, she nearly bursts out laughing at what she sees.

"Geez, old man," she drawls, staring pointedly at the sandy blond ears perched atop his head. "There's pills for that if you're having trouble."

"I'm sure my Fighter will be relieved to hear it when we meet."

His studied politeness makes her roll her eyes, but she feels a little bit shitty all the same. She's not part of a pair herself, but her best friend is, and she'd have to be blind to miss how much happier Gina's been since she found her Sacrifice. Growing old alone without your other half must suck.

"Whatever," she mutters, too angry still at life and the world to muster an apology before sweeping past.

Fuck the bus and this entire day and feeling sorry for lonely strangers. She'll walk back to her crap apartment, and maybe in the morning look at temp agencies again. There's got to be a better way to make up the tuition gap than this.

She makes it twenty blocks before a sharp blow to the head in the shadows of an empty street halts the whirl of her fuming thoughts indefinitely.

***

The call on Sunday comes way too early to mean anything good. It's still pitch dark outside, leaving Will to grope for his phone by the wan light of the screen, dropping it once. "Yeah?" he mutters half into the pillow, forgetting to look at the caller.

" _We've got another one_ ," Jack says without preamble. " _A body, not just an abduction. I need you out there ASAP--I'm emailing the details now_."

"Wait, back up," Will says, rolling onto his back and scrubbing blearily at his face. "Another body?" That's not how their killer works. Elise Nichols was a fluke--

" _And he wasn't shy about it, either. More like the chef inviting the guests to come take a peek inside the kitchen. I want you to look at the scene before it's tampered with. Maybe you and Dr. Lecter can_ \--"

"Whoa. Jack. What's Dr. Lecter got to do with anything?" Suddenly Will feels wide awake. Is Jack really suggesting--

" _He's your Sacrifice; you tell me_."

"Oh, come on! It's a crime scene, not a spell battle. I don't need a Sacrifice to read the evidence."

" _And if it turns into a battle_?"

"I've been fighting solo for years."

" _And now you don't have to_." 

Will clenches his jaw. He should have seen this coming; he'd just been so distracted by the amazement of finding his Sacrifice in the first place, he hadn't thought ahead to some of the logical conclusions other people would draw. "Jack, he's a psychiatrist, not a field agent. If he's got any training at all, it's in the classroom, not in the real world. I'm not going to just throw him to the wolves!"

" _He's going to have to get his feet wet sometime_ \--"

" _No_ ," Will grits out, "actually, he doesn't. He didn't sign on for this, and I'm not going to make that choice for him. Can't, remember? Fighters _take_ orders." Let Jack think on that before he tries to strong-arm Hannibal into dancing to Jack's tune. Will may admire Jack's tenacity in the pursuit of justice, but the Fighter for Relentless more than lives up to his Name, and Will's not going to let Hannibal get steamrolled like that.

" _I think you're underestimating him, Graham_ ," Jack warns flatly.

Will huffs. "Yeah? Because I think you're underestimating me. I don't need any help to do my job. Besides, I thought it was my imagination you wanted, not my Sacrifice." He risks pulling his phone away to take a quick glance at the screen and nearly curses when he sees the time. "Look, I better get up. I'll meet you there, right?"

" _Don't be late_ ," Jack growls, clearly disgusted with him, and hangs up before Will can reply.

Disconnecting his side of the call, Will swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees as he sits up. Christ, it's too early in the morning to deal with Jack. And damn it: he's going to have to cancel on Hannibal. It's honestly the last thing he wants, and not only because he has a deep desire to get to know the man. Hannibal's been disappointed enough by his Fighter already.

Now's not the time to call, though, not for a few more hours. He can wait until the sun's up, at least; no need to compound his offenses by waking Hannibal up just to deliver bad news.

"Fuck," he mutters, dropping his head briefly into his hands, scrubbing his palms over his face before he pushes himself to his feet.

It isn't that Will doesn't want Hannibal along, doesn't think he could handle himself in a fight. If his first impression is accurate, Hannibal's probably excellent at it. He just doesn't know where the pitfalls are, what to guard against or what demons he's fighting.

He doesn't want to risk changing them again now that they've finally reached some kind of equilibrium.

***

Jack waits until after the body is removed and the team has dispersed, standing at the edge of the field where the girl was found like he means to keep watch until the very end. Katz, Price and Zeller barely shoot him a second glance as they pile into one vehicle, but Will gives him a hard look, hovering by his own car with the driver's side door flung wide open, hesitating to climb inside.

Jack ignores him until Will gets tired of waiting, driving off with the dogged caution of a man determined to avoid a confrontation. Only then does Jack climb into his waiting SUV, pull out his phone, and make the call he's been itching to since five this morning. It's picked up on the third ring.

"Dr. Lecter? It's Jack. Jack Crawford."

" _Yes, of course. Is everything all right? Has something happened to Will_?"

Good. That's a very good sign. He hadn't been sure the attachment would be all that strong considering how late it'd formed, but he likes that this is Hannibal's first question.

"Oh--no, sorry to worry you. Everything's fine. We did find another body--did Will tell you already? I thought you two had plans today."

" _Yes; unfortunately, they've had to be postponed._ "

"Right. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Will's going to be staying on here in Minnesota to work on some of the leads from the Nichols site. Ordinarily we'd be tag teaming it, but I've got court tomorrow, so Will's going to be flying solo." _As usual_ , he doesn't say. He doubts he'll need to. If Hannibal's anything like most Sacrifices, the 's' word is pure poison to him.

" _I see. Tell me, Jack--what's the usual procedure when one of your agents has an unaffiliated partner? Does the civilian need to be...deputized, or..._?"

Jack laughs. "Maybe back in the olden days. No, there's provisions in place if an agent needs to call in backup. Your consultant status would make it even more legitimate if the situation ever arose."

" _Good to know. Well. I have a few matters to wrap up here, but if it wouldn't be breaking any regulations, I could join Will tomorrow in your place if I'd be of any assistance_...?"

"It'd be a load off my mind, to be honest," Jack says, letting all of the relief but none of the triumph he feels leak through loud and clear in his voice. "Will's a good agent; just wear your badge and follow his lead, and you'll do great. I just think he could benefit from some extra stability right now."

" _And the two of us could likely benefit from some practice in working together before the stakes become too high_." He sounds amused. Jack probably hasn't fooled him at all, but he lets that go. Hannibal still agreed; he's counting that as a win. " _So? Where am I headed_?"

***

Even asleep, Will senses the approach of...something. Fighter? No, Sacrifice: a gentle, humming pressure that gathers briefly behind his ears, only to diffuse and roll down the back of his neck in a ghostly caress. Does he know that touch? He thinks he might, thinks he wants to know it better. He breathes in deep, pulse racing a little as he drifts towards wakefulness, the urge to bend his head lower and arch his spine into the touch at his nape singing through him like--

He jerks instantly awake at the firm knock on his hotel door, arms and legs flailing as he grabs for handholds amidst the sheets. Shoved to the back of his mind by panic, the threads of the dream shred and dissipate as the knock comes again. What the hell?

Heaving himself out of bed, Will staggers through the dark room to the door, still in his boxers and undershirt. If Jack's got a problem seeing Will in his jammies, he can damned well wait until a reasonable hour of the--

Will rocks back a little on his heels as he throws open the door, blinking foolishly as his head struggles to catch up. It's not Jack waiting on his doorstep--smiling, dressed in another casual suit, a large bag in hand.

"Good morning, Will," Hannibal says. "May I come in?"

The instant, idiot delight Will feels at seeing Hannibal is only equaled by the hot ball of rage set alight in the pit of his stomach.

"Where's Crawford?" he all but growls, scanning the parking lot behind Hannibal's broad shoulders for any glimpse of the asshole.

Hannibal's brows arch minutely. "Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today. Why?"

"Because I'm going to murder him," Will snarls, taking a firmer grip on the doorknob.

Far from intimidated, Hannibal flashes a quick, easy grin. "Well...at least you already know how _not_ to hide the body." Will huffs a laugh despite himself as Hannibal cocks his head. "May I come in?" he asks again.

Will sighs and turns away but leaves the door open at his back. "You didn't have to come all this way," he grumbles, shuffling over to the nightstand to grab the bottle of aspirin he left there. He cracks open the curtains a couple of inches, enough to see but not enough to set off his headache again, with any luck. "I already told Jack to leave you out of this. You do know they can't conscript you, right? That kind of went out with the draft."

"I am aware, yes," Hannibal says as he sets his bag aside. Are those his clothes? Christ, _clothes_. Will's aware he looks a wreck first thing in the morning; at least he's not drenched from another episode of night sweats this time.

"Then no offense, but what gives?" Will asks, hunting around for his suitcase so he can pull on a pair of pants. Hannibal turns away to unzip his fancy leather duffle; Will can't tell whether that's from politeness or indifference. "Why make the trip if Jack wasn't leaning on you?"

He expects a confession. What he gets is a thermos.

"To offer you breakfast, of course."

Caught off guard, Will quickly finds himself ensconced at the room's small table, which rapidly fills with plates and cups and covered bowls that steam invitingly when Hannibal pops off their lids. "I'm very careful about what I put into my body," Hannibal explains as Will continues to stare, dumbfounded. "Which means I end up preparing most meals myself. A little protein scramble to start the day," he says as he sets one of the bowls neatly in the center of Will's plate. "Some eggs, some sausage...."

It looks amazing, but the taste has him doing a double-take. "That is delicious," Will says, genuinely impressed. In his experience, when most guys say they can cook, they mean they can barbecue. Hannibal can _cook_. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." Hannibal pauses half a moment to watch him eat, weighing his reaction with a chef's keen eye. Will doesn't have to fake his enjoyment; as simple as it is, the food is incredible. "I would apologize for surprising you, but as that was actually my intention, I'm afraid it would sound insincere."

"You were definitely a surprise," Will agrees, frowning a little. "Look, I don't know why Jack wanted you out here today. I'm not even doing anything I'd need a Sacrifice for, just following up on a lead from the Nichols case. Boring legwork. If you dropped everything just to do a ride-along...." What do psychiatrists at Hannibal's level make per session, anyway? More than Will, probably. Maybe a lot more. He is going to _kill_ Jack for this.

"Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters," Hannibal replies, sidestepping Will's protest entirely.

Will scowls, but.... "Monsters is right. As in plural. I don't think the Shrike killed that girl in the field," he admits, pushing his plate aside. "Whoever did...he's someone new."

Hannibal chews thoughtfully, leaning forward over the table as he swallows. "The devil's in the details. What didn't your copycat do to the girl in the field? What gave it away?"

"Everything," Will says, slashing his hand out to encompass the whole gory mess. "It's like he had to show me a negative so that I could see the positive; it...." He trails off, scrubs his hands over his face in frustration as he sighs out a heavy breath. He knows it's going to sound crazy, but he sees what he sees. "That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped."

Hannibal pulls back a little, expression disturbed, but not for the reason Will first assumes. "The mathematics of human behavior. All those ugly variables. And now you've had two equations running through your head simultaneously. Do you think that might be why Agent Crawford called? A little extra assistance when it comes time to wipe the slate clean?"

Will scoffs, reaching for his coffee cup and realizing too late that it looks like he's hiding behind it. "Look, you're my Sacrifice, not my therapist. I mean, yeah... _sometimes_...it can be easy to get lost in other perspectives. But that's not what's happening here. Jack wants us working together because once you say yes, it's harder to say no. And this isn't anything you signed up for; eventually you're going to _want_ to say no."

Hannibal regards him for a moment with a strange mix of fondness and amusement, like he knows something Will doesn't. Only the conspiratorial tone to his reply keeps Will from bristling automatically. "You know, Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest china, used only for special guests."

It ought to be insulting--God, it ought to be--but the knowing glint in Hannibal's eyes says he knows better. It has Will laughing under his breath at the absurdity of the picture, because really--teacup? Him? He's a chipped mug at best, full of pencils and streaked with coffee stains. Sitting back in his chair, he grins across the table at Hannibal, who's chuckling a little himself. "How do you see me?" he asks without thinking, and all at once, the moment's charged with a tension he can't quite put an easy label on.

Hannibal stares at him levelly, looking _into_ Will, and though Will's ears fold hesitantly back, he can't tear his eyes away.

"The mongoose I want under the house," Hannibal says at last, "when the snakes slither by."

He should be flattered, he knows, but it hits him like an unexpected blow to the gut. He may be the protection Hannibal wants, but he's missed a few snakes already, and they've been wearing the proof of that on their skins for most of their lives.

He opens his mouth to croak out the apology stuck behind his teeth, but Hannibal stops him before he can draw breath.

"Will. There's no point in dwelling on what happened when we were boys. But for the future, please be assured that I am not without teeth. When the need arises, you can be certain I'll use them."

Will nods hesitantly, then with more conviction. It goes both ways, their habit of self-sufficiency, and he can't expect Hannibal to respect it in him if he can't do the same. "All right," he says, and then, because he can't help himself, "but you still don't have to give in to Jack."

Hannibal flashes a tiny grin. "Who said anything about Jack? I'm indulging in the opportunity to get to know my Fighter. Now. Finish your breakfast."

A little reassured and a lot charmed, Will gives in--and if this counts as his Sacrifice's first order, it's a great precedent as far as he's concerned--ducking his head to hide a smile.

***

Though he knows Will is bored by what he sees as routine, Hannibal is thoroughly entertained by the prospect of playing agent alongside him. He tries to conduct his extracurricular activities with a measure of common sense, which has certainly served him well in the past, but this candid look at how his hunters operate will be invaluable in the future. All the more so for the brilliance of his teacher; if he can pass beneath Will's scrutiny, other agents will be no challenge at all.

They're in the middle of tearing apart the personnel records of a sprawling construction site when Will comes across something that trips his instincts into high alert. "Garret Jacob Hobbs?" he asks the office manager, ignoring her request for their names.

"He's one of our pipe threaders. Those are all the resignation letters; Plumber's Union requires them whenever members finish a job," she explains with a weary, condescending air, their very presence in her domain an affront. She's a Sacrifice as well, used to throwing her authority around. She's made certain to tuck her hair behind her single, human pair of ears as often and as pointedly as she can.

"Does Mr. Hobbs have a daughter?" Will asks with a frown.

"Might have," is the singularly unhelpful reply.

"Eighteen or nineteen," Will tries again, "wind-chafed, plain but pretty. She'd have auburn hair, about this tall."

The office manager shrugs. "Maybe. I don't know. I don't keep company with these people."

Hannibal meets her eyes for a moment then slides his gaze dismissively away. "What is it about Garret Jacob Hobbs you find so peculiar?" he asks Will.

"He left a phone number," Will says, flipping more rapidly through the files, "no address."

"And therefore he has something to hide."

Will huffs out a sharp sigh, one ear twitching in frustration. "The others all left addresses. He also missed work for days at a time.

"You have an address for Mr. Hobbs?" Will asks the office manager, catching her in the midst of rolling her eyes skyward as he turns. Hannibal is nearly tempted to ask for her business card for future reference, assuming she has one. A big fish in such a little pond; surely she must.

They collect the address and then the other personnel files to be cross-referenced later. Their impromptu host fumes impotently, insisting on helping them load boxes into the trunk of Will's car merely to keep hold of what's hers for as long as possible. Pausing before he hands down a box with a few files perched precariously on top, Hannibal glances at Will, still trying to find some perfect configuration that will fit another few boxes, and looks down at his fellow Sacrifice.

"You may not remember a daughter," he says, "but was Garret Jacob Hobbs half of a pair?"

"A Fighter," she says with no hesitation. "Never caused any trouble."

Interesting. If Hobbs does turn out to be their quarry, a warning won't even be necessary; their approach will set off every alarm Hobbs has, especially if Hannibal _leans_ on him a bit. He may not carry magic in his voice, but he's become adept at making his interest felt: a buzzing along the senses that carries with it the uncomfortable certainty of being watched.

"I see. And did you happen to catch his Name?"

***

It takes Will fifty miles on the I-35 to come to terms with the fact that they're not heading to the next construction site. It's stupid and irresponsible of him to put Hannibal at risk like this, but the faces of those eight dead girls--nine, if he counts the copycat's kill--won't leave him alone. An equally lazy approach to paperwork and attendance isn't much to go on, but if he's right, if Hobbs has a daughter, it'll all be worth it. He just wishes he knew for certain that he wasn't getting them in over their heads.

"So, um...how do Sacrifices learn to fight solo, anyway?" he asks, turning his head in Hannibal's direction while his eyes don't make it any further than the dashboard.

"Well...the martial arts were my aunt's idea; my uncle favored fencing."

" _Hannibal_...." It's strange, though, isn't it? That he mentioned his aunt and uncle and not his parents. Or maybe not so strange after all.

Hannibal chuckles, unrepentant, but immediately caves. "The boarding school I attended was fortunate enough to employ a handful of blank Fighters. Lacking Names, they were able to pair up with any of us who were missing a partner, though I'm told the potency of spells increases enormously with linked pairs."

"Feedback loop," Will agrees absently. "Magic's all about will, and yes, I'm aware of the irony of that. The Sacrifice makes a plan, finds a path. The Fighter focuses their will to impose their Sacrifice's will on the world."

"And then the Sacrifice gets terribly smug about it and adds their certainty in their Fighter's strength to the mix."

Will snorts and tries to smooth away a smirk. "You've never been beaten, have you?"

"Not even once."

He really hopes this isn't where the streak ends.

They roll up slowly outside the Hobbs' residence, and for just a moment, Will is tempted to ask Hannibal to stay in the car. Hannibal hadn't seemed worried at all when Will told him he wanted to interview Hobbs now, as soon as possible, but he doesn't even know what bravado looks like on Hannibal. He's never seen Hannibal look anything but utterly composed.

Will gets out of the car first, only vaguely reassured by the gun displayed prominently on his hip. He hadn't thought to ask before whether Hobbs was part of a pair, but there's definitely a Fighter inside that tidy, well-kept house, and at least one Sacrifice as well.

He hears Hannibal step out of the car to follow him, but he's a little distracted by the twitch of the curtains near the door.

"Hannibal--"

"I see it."

Damn it. This is not going the way he'd wanted, but maybe it's not too late to call for backup.

Before he can reach for his phone, the front door of the house is wrenched open. Two figures stand at the threshold--Garret Jacob Hobbs and a woman who must be his Sacrifice--but Hobbs pushes the woman out, shouting, "Not here! Not here!"

He slams the door shut just as Will realizes the woman's throat has been cut.

Will sprints to her side as she falls, forgetting entirely the danger of being shot at or declared upon. The wound is far too deep, a clean side-to-side cut that soaks his hands as he tries to hold her together. She scrabbles at him weakly, but it's too late; by the time Hannibal joins him on the porch, she's already gone.

His low-key awareness of a strange Sacrifice's presence doesn't fade.

"Will," Hannibal says steadily. "There's still two people inside."

He's right. They have to declare.

Will kicks in the door but leaves his firearm holstered. Only an idiot brings a gun to a spell battle; bullets are too easily deflected, _reflected_. "Garret Jacob Hobbs?" he yells, moving cautiously through the house, his topmost ears swiveling to catch every scrap of sound. He senses more than sees Hannibal following close on his heels; he moves quietly for someone with no training. "This is the Fighter for Incisive, FBI! Give yourself up, or I _will_ declare--"

"I declare a spell battle!" shouts the desperate, panicked man in the kitchen. Hobbs still has a knife, and he's holding it to his daughter's throat. She's young, plain but pretty, helpless tears welling up in huge blue eyes. Will can just see the edges of the black block letters that make up her Name peeking out of her shirt, right over her heart.

Beneath Will's feet, the smooth tile of the kitchen floor jolts, ripples, and begins to stretch as reality warps around them.

Reaching back to offer Hannibal a hand if he needs it, Will just manages to hold back a curse. He's given their killer the home turf advantage, locked them inside a pocket dimension where every scuff on the floors or smudge on the wallpaper is known to the enemy but not to them.

Practice helps him keep his feet as the walls bow sickeningly out and in and _through_ , intersecting with other pieces of the house in ways they shouldn't, windows migrating off at cockeyed angles to become skylights. Mounted trophy heads jut here and there at random, but some haven't survived the transition gracefully, deconstructed and stitched haphazardly along bends in the architecture. It's a hunter's funhouse mirror, and they're stuck inside it until one Sacrifice is too thickly buried under spell restraints to keep their Fighter unfettered or one Fighter is dead.

"Put the knife down, Hobbs," Will warns, forcing himself not to flinch at the deep, echoing booms of walls locking together somewhere just out of sight, the reverberations driving a spike right through his skull. "You don't want to do this."

Hobbs laughs, eyes glassy with unshed tears. When he shakes his head, it disorders his daughter's hair, he's pulled her so close. "Of course I don't. Don't you see how hard I've been trying?"

"Dad," the girl begs, voice cracking. "Dad, please...."

"Shh," Hobbs hushes her gently. "It's okay. You don't have to fight."

What in the hell does he mean by--

" _Gore_!" Hobbs yells, and Will just manages to leap back in time as the floor cracks open beneath his feet. Twisted spars of wood and steel pipe jut up through the tile where he'd been standing, split vaguely in the shape of bristling antlers, jagged-sharp at the tips.

"Bind!" Will shouts right back, but he can't quite get a grip on the arena or its contents. All he has to work with is what he can see, so it's their clothes that try to knot together, Hobbs' rolled sleeves crawling down his arms and struggling to pull his hands away from his daughter's neck.

"Untangle!" Hobbs snaps, a minor spell Will hasn't used since practice bouts in the high school gym. It's probably meant to be just as insulting as it feels. "Snare!" Hobbs tosses out almost in the same breath, and Christ, their hunter must be thinking of rabbits, meat for the pot, not a simple takedown. A length of bare wire drops from nowhere to slither around Will's shoulders and wrap around his throat, cutting into his fingers as he makes a grab for it.

It vanishes in the next instant, but Will feels no relief. He knows what he'll see when he glances back at Hannibal, who stands a textbook pace behind him to the left.

Two minutes into their first battle, and he's already gotten Hannibal restrained.

The glowing, transparent collar that circles Hannibal's neck and the stout length of chain that disappears into the floor look like they could be cut with a finger, nothing but a flimsy construct of light. Will knows from experience that they're heavy, substantial, that they sting against the skin with the buzz of unfriendly magic transmuted from its original shape but not disarmed. He's seen Sacrifices panic the instant a restriction lands, claustrophobia a tighter noose than the collar itself. Hannibal gives no sign he even notices it's there.

"It's interesting that you don't want us here," Hannibal speaks up at last, his conversational tone startling Hobbs' silent. "Most Fighters would welcome the home advantage. It's for her sake, isn't it?" he asks with an understanding smile, nodding at the girl.

Fuck, what is Hannibal doing? They shouldn't be drawing attention to the kid at all...except that it seems to be working.

"It's her home," Hobbs snarls, all wounded affront. "She shouldn't have to see it like this."

"A lovely place to raise a child, especially for a traditionalist," Hannibal agrees. "You are a traditionalist, aren't you, Mr. Hobbs? Except for the once," he allows, ignoring Hobbs' jolt of startlement, "and you married your moment of weakness, didn't you? It must have seemed like such a gift when that tiny slip gave you your Sacrifice at last."

Will stares. Is Hannibal saying--the girl? The girl is Hobbs' Sacrifice?

\-- _a flash, a shift, and he can see it, the amazement and relief the first time he holds his baby girl, before it really sinks in what this means for him, for them. She's a good girl, with a good head on her shoulders, and he's so proud of her sometimes it feels like it might crack him open. But she's still his daughter, and children don't stick around forever. She'll leave someday, find someone who won't love her more, but who'll love her differently, and she'll forget all about the Fighter she doesn't need and the father she's outgrown. He can't stand it, won't stand it, but what's he going to do? All he wants is to keep her_ \--

"--close," Hannibal is saying as Will blinks back to himself. "But what about the girls you sacrificed in her place? Have you kept them close as well?"

The girl's eyes widen, her already pale face going bloodless, pinned-back ears clamping harder to her skull. "No," she moans in horror. "Oh, no, no, no--"

"Shut up!" Hobbs yells, arm tightening across his daughter's shoulders. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

Oh, God. They're here. The bodies. They're _here._ And Hobbs is a traditionalist. A dedicated hunter and proud of it. He wouldn't waste a thing.

Hannibal arches a brow, unruffled, terrible in his politeness. "Would all those reminders have ever been enough?"

Will wishes he could say he doesn't know where the impulse comes from, that the dark, vindictive thing inside him that wants to see men like Hobbs suffer didn't prick up its ears at Hannibal's innocent phrasing. Hobbs wants reminders, does he? Will can give him reminders.

"Reanimate!" he barks into the hush of their stalemate, but even he isn't expecting what follows.

The walls groan lowly, a series of sharp pops sounding off like gunshots somewhere beyond the façade of the real world they've wrapped around themselves. Fissures burst open like the first crazed lines scrawled across the shell of an egg, but Will can't tell whether it's from the writhing of something struggling to hatch or evidence of a giant's fist slowly crushing their little pocket of sanctuary. Deep shadow floods the place where they stand as the displaced windows cloud over, a viscous, dark liquid lapping purposefully over the glass. More spills from the cracks in the walls, and Will smells iron, animal musk, the bitter-rot tang of opened cavities left to fester in the heat.

With a deafening crack of splintered wood, dark shapes force themselves through the gaps in the walls on every side, half-seen in the half-light. Will's first thought is _tentacles_ , but the thick, snaking arms are too coarse, their surface too irregular to be bound in skin. It's hair, he realizes in the next instant--impossibly thick ropes of human hair, black in the shadows, but he bets they'd be auburn in the sun.

Hobbs has gone white as a sheet, staring up at the dark coils eeling through the cracks in the walls, his knife hand lax with distraction. Will's got the bastard. He's _got_ him.

" _Bind_!" he shouts, heart in his throat, triumph and relief a cool flutter in the pit of his stomach.

The girl breaks the instant the ropes hurl themselves toward her father, a horrified shriek tearing from her throat as she tries to push herself back into her father's chest. Hobbs starts, but his daughter's scream galvanizes him; baring his teeth in a determined snarl, he rips the blade across her throat with more speed than skill. Her scream cutting off as she gasps and chokes, the girl drops straight down as her knees give out, sliding right out of Hobbs' arms.

Hobbs lifts the knife again, rocking up on his toes as he gathers himself to follow her down, end the job.

" _Pin_!" Will bellows--he has to stop this, _stop him_ \--and Hobbs freezes with a jolt, arm still poised to fall, body still arching up and up.

And up. Off his feet entirely, suspended on the tines that burst through his chest as something slams into him from behind.

Will sucks in a hitching, startled breath as a warm spray of blood catches him square in the face. It's hard to see in the flickering gloom, but the dark shape at Hobbs' back looks like a massive black stag, its shaggy pelt softened by a sleek layer of feathers. Its head is bowed, hidden behind Hobbs' torso, but Will would have no trouble counting the points of its impressive rack, because they're sticking right _through_ Hobbs. There's a flash--

"-- _deer and elk pin their prey, okay_ \--"

\--a ripple as reality shifts--

\-- _and he doesn't even remember getting out of the shower, just falling facedown into dreams haunted by the muffled tread of heavy hooves_ \--

\--and the battle sphere drops.

The kitchen looks the same as it did ten minutes ago but for a few strange craters in the plaster walls, the man slumped against the cabinets with nine holes in his chest, and the shivering girl bleeding out on the floor, eyes wide and wild.

Will drops to his knees beside her, hands shaking as he tries to staunch the flow of blood. "No, no, no," he pleads under his breath, pulse hammering in his ears. He can't have fucked this up, failed the very girl he predicted, watched for, _expected_ from the start. "No, come on-- _S-suture_ ," he tries, though the battle sphere's already dropped, his magic locked up inside him for now. If he can pull the sphere back up while Hobbs is still alive--

"See?" Hobbs breathes out with a satisfied grin, oddly relieved. Will scowls. What the hell is he supposed to see? The two of them dying together? "See?"

"I--I declare--"

Hobbs' next breath ends on a long, slow rattle, eyes losing focus as his head drops to one side.

"No," Will groans as the frail body before him jerks and chokes.

"Will."

" _No_." He's not giving up here. He's _not_.

"Will," Hannibal says again, brushing Will's hands gently aside as he kneels at the girl's head, heedless of the blood. One hand cups her throat, fingers pressing firm and sure; the other cradles the back of her neck, forcing it straight and letting her head tilt fractionally back. His placid expression is the single point of calm Will has to focus on.

"She--we have to--"

"Will. I need you to call for an ambulance. Can you do that for me?"

"Y-yes," he says, his breath still coming in rapid pants, the tremors in his hands having spread to the core of him. He can do this, though. He only fumbles the phone twice.

"It's all right," Hannibal promises the girl, voice kind. "I was a surgeon before. You're going to be fine."

Will waits right there on the floor alongside them until the EMTs arrive and hustle him out of their way. When they tug the girl's shirt aside to bandage the gaping slice in the left side of her neck, he catches a glimpse of her name.

 _Reverence_.

It's all he can do not to be sick on the spot.

"Will," Hannibal says again, God, how many times today? They're standing on the front lawn, and he has no memory of walking out, no clue how he got there. The Hobbs girl is on a stretcher, gasping and fighting for each breath as they load her into the ambulance, but she's alive. She's still alive. "Do you need me to stay?" Hannibal asks patiently, ducking his head a little to put himself in the way of Will's blank stare.

"Stay?" he croaks, confused.

"The EMTs can handle this," Hannibal explains, nodding after them, "but I witnessed the cause of injury and had a hand in her care."

Understanding dawns slowly. Hannibal's a doctor, or used to be; he knows the situation, could tell the girl's caregivers a lot. He should go with her; there's no one left to look after her now.

"Go," Will says, taking a deep breath to pull himself together. "I'll need to make a statement. Paperwork. Meet you at the hospital?" he asks, more uncertain than he'd like.

"You are my ride," Hannibal reminds Will with a gentle half-smile.

Will's not in any shape to drive at the moment, but later...later he'll be fine.

They _saved_ her, after all. That's not going to change.

Everything's going to be just fine.

***

Hannibal wakes from his light doze in Abigail Hobbs' hospital room while Will is still halfway down the hall, but he doesn't move for a long, long time. He keeps his ears perfectly still as he hears Will sink into the room's other chair on the opposite side of the hospital bed, listening in silence to Will's steady breaths. He expects Will to wake him--surely he has questions about Hannibal's little performance at the Hobbs' residence--but Will merely sits, standing watch over them both without complaint.

Pretending to wake at last, Hannibal lifts his head and blinks his eyes open to find Will watching him with a strange, soft look, sad but also fond.

"Hey," Will says by way of greeting, keeping his voice down as if afraid of waking the child between them.

"Hello," Hannibal replies, his voice low and rough with sleep. Will shifts distractedly in his chair. Interesting. Hannibal clears his throat. "Are you all right?"

"Me?" Will looks surprised. "Yeah, of course. We should be asking her that. Abigail?"

He must've run into the nurses. Hannibal nods. "Her doctors induced a coma to give her time to heal, but she took the surgery well. She should make a full recovery in no time."

Will sags back in his chair, relieved. "Good. Great. That's great."

"Indeed," Hannibal agrees, giving Abigail's limp hand a final squeeze before letting go. His muscles protest as he sits up properly, aches fading as he rolls his neck and pulls back his shoulders. He won't say he's getting old, but his body is no longer as instantly forgiving as it used to be.

Will's sigh and pensive frown draws his attention. "You know, I can't decide which is worse," Will says abruptly. "That he'd do this to his own daughter or to his own Sacrifice. Hell, I can hardly believe she's his Sacrifice. Was. His Sacrifice."

"Parent-child pairs are very rare," Hannibal says with a shrug. "Aside from the longevity issue, I believe this may be a perfect example of why."

"Is she...are you sure it's safe for her to be under this deep?" Will asks, eyeing her uneasily. "Sometimes people just...give up."

"You think the loss of her Fighter will accomplish what his knife did not?"

Will's mouth twists. "Sometimes losing half a pair means you lose the whole pair. You know that."

"I do," Hannibal agrees, "but I don't think that will be the case this time. She's still young; she might still be capable of forming a new bond, or she may one day put her name on a blank." He pretends not to notice the sharp look Will gives him, the way he bristles instantly at the suggestion. "Or she may decide she wants nothing to do with Fighters hereafter. But she will live, I assure you."

"I don't think you can promise that," Will says wistfully, eyes dropping to the small hand turned palm-up on the bed near Hannibal's chair.

"Will," Hannibal says: his own small spell, claiming _this_ name for his own as well. " _Watch me_."

**Author's Note:**

> * I feel kind of weird making Jack the Fighter for Relentless, because I have that in mind for another pair entirely, but what're you gonna do. If the Name fits.... (Though honestly I see him as the negative aspects of that Name, unlike the very positive and wonderfully cinematic other version I'll get around to writing one day!)
> 
> * Also, after several hours of starting at Google maps, airline and drive times, and distances involved, I gave up entirely on trying to make any kind of realistic sense of time between the scenes for Aperitif. I did what I could, man. And now I'm going to fill the rest of those plot holes with ears and tails. XD


End file.
